


Kissing Like Ghosts

by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-02-23 08:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23808517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letmetellyouaboutmyfeels/pseuds/letmetellyouaboutmyfeels
Summary: In which broken pots try to still hold water.
Relationships: Miranda Barlow/Captain Flint | James McGraw, Miranda Barlow/Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton
Comments: 10
Kudos: 35





	Kissing Like Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr here: https://letmetellyouaboutmyfeels.tumblr.com/post/616216405988261888/9-for-flintmiranda-you-really-want-me-to-make
> 
> Summary is a reference to "Pray" by The Amazing Devil which struck me as a very Miranda song.

They don’t really make love, anymore.

Miranda can remember how it used to be. Not that she’s ever been one of those women who needs a tender touch all the time. She does enjoy a little roughhousing, she likes to pin or be pinned. Thomas would enjoy a hand around his throat but James was never comfortable being the one to do that, so Miranda always took care of it, adding pressure in time with James’ thrusts, a rhythm of breathlessness.

But for every time they would bruise each other, there would be times they’d hold each other. Thomas would cradle her so sweetly while James was inside her, and one time she and James did nothing more than lie in bed and kiss for hours. And in a world that is all dust and grit, crumbling walls and broken pottery, she could use a little of that softness and care.

James, though.

He is not _James_ anymore. He has locked James away, imprisoned him in his own heart for crimes he feels he’s committed, and Flint stands in his place.

When he comes to her that night, it is with the usual intent, and Miranda—well. Miranda Hamilton has never had a problem with putting her foot down.

Flint kisses her rough, consuming, and it’s good, of course it is, and part of her wants to simply give him what he asks for because she loves him, and she knows that no matter how much he hates himself he still loves her. She knows that he rails and rants at her because she’s safe, because she’s a harbor and the rest of the world is a stormy sea, and not because he actually, truly means it.

But.

Miranda plants her hands on his chest and pushes him back. Flint pauses, confused. “No?”

If she replies, _no,_ he’ll stop. He always has.

Instead she shakes her head and leans in, moves her hands up to frame his face. Kisses him softly, the way she once used to, the way that was once habit.

Flint shudders from head to toe and she thinks she almost hears a cry echoing inside of his head, but then he grabs her, hauls her to him—

Miranda grabs a hold of his hair and yanks, just far enough back that there’s space between their mouths. “You’ll kiss me gently, or not at all.”

He snarls at her, but between the two of them, Miranda’s claws are sharper. Flint is fire but she is ice, a _glacier,_ and she will not melt.

“Gently,” she repeats, her fingers tight in his hair but her lips feathers against his. “Or not at all.”

“Not at all, then,” Flint growls, and he turns to stomp out.

“So you’ll martyr yourself further, then?” she asks, her tone light, a stiletto blade. “Is that better than simply letting me take you with love?”

“There is no room for love like that here,” Flint tells her. His back his to her—it means he’s scared of what he’ll let her see if he turns around. She knows him better than herself, now.

“Here, it’s even more important we have love like that.” Miranda draws herself up. When she did that in a ballroom, everyone turned to watch. They all knew when a queen was about to speak. “Simply because you wish to punish yourself doesn’t mean it’s a just sentence. Even prisoners get an hour in the sun each day.”

“This is nothing—” He begins to storm back over to her, but Miranda cuts his monologue in half before he can begin it.

“Do me the courtesy of not lying to me, even as you lie to yourself! You think it’s a dishonor to our grief to let me touch you like that! You think if you have even a day, an hour, a moment of happiness that it means you didn’t love him enough!” She’s seen him flinch less at the crack of a whip. “You forget that he wouldn’t want you, either of us, to suffer.”

“He would want to be alive!”

“Of course he would be, but he’s not here, and I lost his soft touch already, I won’t lose yours!”

They bare their teeth at each other like alley cats, and then she does the last thing she knows he’ll expect—she grabs him again, pulls him to her, draws his head to her breast and holds onto him tightly, unyielding, cradles him whether he wishes it or not.

James presses his nose into the hollow of her throat and she feels his fingers tremble as he reaches up to hold her in return. A shudder works through them, from her to him or from him to her, she’s not certain.

“I know you want this, too,” she murmurs. “Let yourself.”

“I hate you.” _I hate you for refusing to ignore my weaknesses, I hate you for exposing them to sunlight, I hate you because you still love me._

“I know.” Miranda strokes through his hair. “Darling, I know.”

There will be a day when she cannot reach him, when the walls will be so thick she cannot break through them. But today, thank God, is not that day.

They still don’t make love. But he lets her hold him, and his kisses on her neck are soft, and that is—like most things, these days—almost good enough.


End file.
